Bay Rum

  • autumn stroll for a pumpkin man

    An Autumn Stroll for a Pumpkin Man Perfume Oil

    It had cost so much to come this far; there was no turning back now.


    Russet dried maple leaves crunching around a jack o’lantern splashed with bay rum, curling with cigar smoke.

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  • Baron Samedi Perfume Oil

    A notorious voodoo priest, who eventually rose to become one of the funereal Guédés, alongside Baron Cimitère and Baron La Croix. He is a Guardian of the Crossroads: the pathways between our world and the realm of the spirits. As a Master of the Graveyard, he ensures that burial rites are performed with skill, and he helps ferry souls to the dark realm.

    In his honor, we have created this scent: our spin on traditional Bay Rum.

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    Daddy by EFFY Beard Oil

    Not all daddies have beards, and not all beards belong to daddies! That’s why EFFY’s unisex fragrance DADDY by EFFY is now available as a perfume blend and a beard oil, to make sure your bases are covered. (Note: do not apply to your third base area! Face-beards only, por favor.)

    The scent is the same! A roll in the hay with a sexy demon daddy: a diabolical incense with a splash of bay rum and a hiss of infernal fougere.

    Label photo credit: Jordan Nachole Hall

    The accompanying perfume oil can be found here.

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    Daddy by EFFY Perfume Oil

    DADDY isn’t defined by gender: it IS a gender, and it’s anyone’s to try on. It takes all kinds ⁠— masc daddies, lady daddies, queer daddies, punk daddies, muscle daddies, soft daddies, big daddies, baby daddies, noncorporeal daddies.

    Subtle differences in skin chemistry ensure that no two people will wear DADDY quite the same way; this power is yours to wield as you see fit. No leather jacket, no fishnets, no problem! (But if you want ’em, we know a guy.)

    A roll in the hay with a sexy demon daddy: a diabolical incense with a splash of bay rum and a hiss of infernal fougere. Congrats, you’re a DADDY now too!

    Label photo credit: Jordan Nachole Hall

    The accompanying beard oil can be found here.

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  • frederic

    Frederic 2024 Perfume Oil

    For some ridiculous reason, to which, however, I’ve no desire to be disloyal,
    Some person in authority, I don’t know who, very likely the Astronomer Royal,
    Has decided that, although for such a beastly month as February, twenty-eight days as a rule are plenty,
    One year in every four his days shall be reckoned as nine and twenty.
    Through some singular coincidence – I shouldn’t be surprised if it were owing to the agency of an ill-natured fairy –
    You are the victim of this clumsy arrangement, having been born in leap-year, on the twenty-ninth of February;
    And so, by a simple arithmetical process, you’ll easily discover,
    That though you’ve lived twenty-one years, yet, if we go by birthdays, you’re only five and a little bit over!

    Alas, poor Frederic the Leapling! — bound to the merry Pirates of Penzance until his twenty-first birthday.

    As his birthday comes around only every four years, so does his scent!

    Victorian whimsy and piratical romance: a reluctant seaman’s chypre sloshed with a mix of bay rum, patchouli, amber musk, dark woods, tea rose, and red currant.

     

     

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    Isaac, The Living Skeleton Perfume Oil

    To your side, you hear a man’s deep whisper, “Slowly I turned… inch by inch… step by step….” A scream interrupts him, and a roar of laughter pulses through the shadowed hall. Following the commotion, you move to the next stage. A bone-thin man moves across the stage, and sits upon an overstuffed, threadbare armchair. A battered violin is propped against the chair’s side. The audience starts to dissipate, and you realize that you must have just missed his performance. Relaxing, he reclines lazily, and as the light falls on his face, you come to realize that he is truly skeletal: a thin membrane of skin covers most of his body, but in many places, bone is completely exposed. He winks at you, and chuckles at your obvious discomfiture. The sweet smoke from his cigar touches your senses, and you hear the soft clink of the ice as he swirls the bourbon in his tumbler.

    “Late for the show, are ya, friend? I’ll tell you a quick one, and then you’d best skedaddle. I have better things to do than sit here and be gawked at all night.” He takes a swig from his tumbler.

    “A man goes to a psychiatrist. The psychiatrist says, ‘I think you’re crazy.’ The man says, ‘I want a second opinion.’ The psychiatrist shrugs and says, ‘Alright, you’re ugly, too.’”

    His attention is diverted by a scantily clad woman in the audience beside you, and he leers at her. “Hello, nurse!” he growls, and leans towards her lecherously. “How’s about you come back to my dressing room, and I show you my stamp collection?”

    Bourbon, black tobacco tar, dry bone, bay rum aftershave, and sleazy cologne.

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    Jazz Funeral Perfume Oil

    Considered a great honor, this is one of the most distinguished aspects of New Orleans culture. Its roots lie in the customs of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people, and is a celebration of both the person’s life and the beauty and solemnity of their death. The procession is lead by the Grand Marshal, resplendent in his black tuxedo, white gloves and black hat in hand; almost a vision of the great Baron Samedi himself. The music begins with solemn, tolling dirges, moves into hymns of sorrow, loss and redemption. When the burial site is reached, a two-note preparatory riff is sounded, and the drummers start the second-line beat, heralding the switch in music to joyous, upbeat songs, dancing, and the unfurling of richly decorated umbrellas by the ‘second line’ friends, family, loved ones and stray celebrants. Strutting, bouncing, and festive dance accompanies the upbeat ragtime music that sends the departed soul onto its next journey.

    Didn’t he ramble
    … he rambled
    Rambled all around
    … in and out of town
    Didn’t he ramble
    … didn’t he ramble
    He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

    His feet was in the market place
    his head was in the street
    Lady pass him by, said
    look at the market meat
    He grabbed her pocket book
    and said I wish you well
    She pulled out a forty-five
    said I’m head of personnel.

    Didn’t he ramble
    … he rambled
    Rambled all around
    … in and out of town
    Didn’t he ramble
    … didn’t he ramble
    He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

    He slipped into the cat house
    made love to the stable
    Madam caught him cold
    said I’ll pay you when I be able
    Six months had passed
    and she stood all she could stand
    She said buddy when I’m through with you
    Ole groundhog gonna be shakin yo’ hand.

    Didn’t he ramble
    … he rambled
    Rambled all around
    … in and out of town
    Didn’t he ramble
    … didn’t he ramble
    He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

    I said he rambled
    lord
    … ’till the butcher shot him down.

    Bittersweet bay rum, bourbon, and a host of funeral flowers with a touch of graveyard dirt, magnolia and Spanish Moss.

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  • Jolly Roger

    Sea spray with an undercurrent of leather, Bay Rum, and salty, dry woods.

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    Jolly Roger Beard Oil

    Sea spray with an undercurrent of leather, Bay Rum, and salty, dry woods.

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    Knucklebones Perfume Oil

    You hear a clatter on the ground behind you, and a small bleached bone smacks against your foot. Cloaked in shadows between the tents, three men crouch playing knucklebones. Distress clouds the face of one of the men, while another bursts into a wicked smile and the last one sighs in relief. Scooping up his winnings and shaking his head, the victor makes a soft ‘tsk’ noise as he reaches towards the loser’s chest, positioning his hand over the man’s heart. Pressing forward, his hand moves through cloth, flesh, muscle, and bone to extract the beating organ. Tossing the heart onto the ground, he says to you, “Mind handing me those bones, buddy? I’ve got a game to run here.”

    Black musk, bay rum, lime fougere, orange blossom water, gin, and tobacco.

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  • Let America Be America Again Perfume Oil

    Let America be America again.
    Let it be the dream it used to be.
    Let it be the pioneer on the plain
    Seeking a home where he himself is free.

    (America never was America to me.)

    Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed-
    Let it be that great strong land of love
    Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
    That any man be crushed by one above.

    (It never was America to me.)

    O, let my land be a land where Liberty
    Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
    But opportunity is real, and life is free,
    Equality is in the air we breathe.

    (There’s never been equality for me,
    Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

    Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
    And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

    I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
    I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
    I am the red man driven from the land,
    I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
    And finding only the same old stupid plan
    Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

    I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
    Tangled in that ancient endless chain
    Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
    Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
    Of work the men! Of take the pay!
    Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

    I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
    I am the worker sold to the machine.
    I am the Negro, servant to you all.
    I am the people, humble, hungry, mean-
    Hungry yet today despite the dream.
    Beaten yet today-O, Pioneers!
    I am the man who never got ahead,
    The poorest worker bartered through the years.

    Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
    In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
    Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
    That even yet its mighty daring sings
    In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
    That’s made America the land it has become.
    O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
    In search of what I meant to be my home-
    For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
    And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
    And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
    To build a “homeland of the free.”

    The free?

    Who said the free? Not me?
    Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
    The millions shot down when we strike?
    The millions who have nothing for our pay?
    For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
    And all the songs we’ve sung
    And all the hopes we’ve held
    And all the flags we’ve hung,
    The millions who have nothing for our pay-
    Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

    O, let America be America again-
    The land that never has been yet-
    And yet must be-the land where every man is free.
    The land that’s mine-the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME-
    Who made America,
    Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
    Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
    Must bring back our mighty dream again.

    Sure, call me any ugly name you choose-
    The steel of freedom does not stain.
    From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
    We must take back our land again,
    America!

    O, yes,
    I say it plain,
    America never was America to me,
    And yet I swear this oath-
    America will be!

    Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
    The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
    We, the people, must redeem
    The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
    The mountains and the endless plain-
    All, all the stretch of these great green states-
    And make America again!

    – Langston Hughes

    O, let America be America again – the land that never has been yet: waving green grasses, purple-hued amber, smoked sandalwood, bay rum, clove bud, cardamom, and black pepper.

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    Mr. Nancy Perfume Oil

    Before Fat Charlie’s father had come into the bar, the barman had been of the opinion that the whole karaoke evening was going to be an utter bust; but then the little old man had sashayed into the room, walked past the table of several blonde women with the fresh sunburns and smiles of tourists…He had tipped his hat to them, for he wore a hat, a spotless green fedora, and lemon-yellow gloves, and then he walked over to their table. They giggled….He was older than they were, much, much older; but he was charm itself, like something from a bygone age when fine manners and courtly gestures were worth something. The barman relaxed. With someone like this in the bar, it was going to be a good evening.

    Sugar cookies with bay rum, tobacco, and lime.

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  • Santo Domingo Perfume Oil

    An exotic, sultry blend of tobacco leaf, bay rum and heady Caribbean blossoms.

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    The Marquis De Carabas Perfume Oil

    He wore a huge dandyish black coat that was not quite a frock coat nor exactly a trench coat, and high black boots, and, beneath his coat, raggedy clothes. His eyes burned white in an extremely dark face. And he grinned whie teeth, momentarily, as if at a private joke of his own, and bowed to Richard, and said, “De Carabas, at your service, and you are…?”

    A splash of bay rum, leather, dusty black wool, massoia bark, and opium residue.

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    Trevor Bruttenholm Perfume Oil

    A classic men’s cologne mixed with the scent of old, yellowed books, a splash of bay rum, and summoning incense.

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